


but i've had no love like your love

by jupitired



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Not Epilogue Compliant, bear with me you guys are angels truly, dramatic quidditch injuries obviously, i would say enemies to friends to lovers but it's a little more convoluted, tension-filled dancing because otherwise how am i indulging myself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupitired/pseuds/jupitired
Summary: “Nothing has happened, there’s no happening of anything occurring,” she answers, a touch too insistent. But it is, in most senses of the word, true — they’ve had one heart-to-heart that gave her emotional whiplash and one almost moment that Ginny thinks might have led to an actual moment and nothing more. Whether Ginny wants to explore the concept of more is another question and not really one worth asking yet.Or — Ginny and Pansy meet again four years after the Battle and things are different.





	but i've had no love like your love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [provocative_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/gifts).



> hello! happy leo szn! you're welcome re:this, by the way!  
> > if you are andrea, hi! happy belated birthday! this has been in the works since march madness (and ginsy's first loss rip), and is finally seeing the light. but also double dedication because this is the peak of self-indulgence and you are an absolute role model when it comes to self-indulgent writing. still kind of sorry it went out of control.  
> > if you are anyone else, enjoy the copious gayness!  
> > i was going to hold off on this until _my_ birthday a few days from now so i could like, treat myself, but as it turns out if there is no one like, physically holding me back, i am incapable of keeping a lid on things.  
> > my visual reference for pansy is orion carloto specifically in [this](https://rachellazatin.com/orion-carloto-in-los-angeles) shoot and my visual reference for ginny is like. one piece of fanart that i reblogged last year and cannot for the life of me find again and nothing else because the world enjoys denying me my soft butch ginny weasley rights by erasing all redheaded soft butch women from existence. join me in my mourning please and thank you and also if you have anything relating to this specific interest of mine please help a gal out.

She meets Pansy Parkinson at Charity Gala #3 of the 2002 season.

Well, _no_ — that’s a misleading statement. She met Pansy Parkinson nearly ten years prior when she shoved past Ginny on the way to breakfast, barely sparing her a second glance, let alone an apology. That was a shitty first meeting, on all accounts. And really, it doesn’t count anymore. It’s like — reincarnation. If there’s anything that she learned after the war, it’s that hardly anyone came out on the other side the same person they were when they went in.

Parkinson’s apologised and done community service and _kissed babies_ , for Merlin’s sake. Ginny was — _is_ — petty enough to relish in how horrified a 14-year-old Pansy Parkinson would have found that, but she’s also mature enough to see her actions for the olive branch they are.

Anyway, this meeting promises to be much better. For one, Ginny is on equal standing with Parkinson. Maybe higher. _Probably_ higher. (Her attendance at the galas is a contractual obligation because she counts for triple points for the Harpies: War Hero _and_ Star Chaser _and_ Lesbian Icon! Her PR agent tells her that she’s very popular apparently, but her weekly pile of hate mail thinks otherwise.) For another, she looks a lot better. Her stylist has made her hair nice and feathery and _fluffy_ for the evening and her suit is doing great things for her arse and her shoulders.

Still, she feels the need to reassure herself. It’s weird because she’s passed by Parkinson dozens of times in the three years that she’s been attending these galas and it was _fine_ , completely _fine_ , only this is the first time she’s been roped into a conversation with her.

During the time that she was having her internal monologue, her coach has been talking about something finance-related with the man opposite them who is presumably Parkinson’s date from the way his arm is loosely resting around her waist. Ginny thinks he might be the new Puddlemere owner. Pansy is listening with polite attention, sipping demurely from a glass of champagne. 

Just as Ginny finds the right moment to try and extricate herself from the conversation, her coach (whom she normally adores but is currently very tempted to hex into next week) turns to her and says in a bright, genial tone that almost makes her jump, “Andrew, you know Ginny here, I’m sure. Ginny, this is Andrew Hollingsworth, he’s the new owner of Puddlemere United. And of course, this is his date — Miss Parkinson, yes?”

Parkinson nods and smiles tightly, the corners of it tinged with self-deprecation. It still surprises Ginny when she witnesses an instant of how her teammates and colleagues weren’t half as involved in the war as she, or even Parkinson, were, even if Parkinson was on the wrong side. It’s likely that no one outside of those who were at the Battle (or alternately, those who obsess about it after the fact) even talks all that much about what Pansy did.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hollingsworth says as he shakes her hand, then seems to catch her gaze straying to Parkinson. “You and Pansy went to school together, didn’t you?” His stance is now almost protective, his arm rigid and he’s swivelled towards Parkinson ever so slightly. _More than just a date then?_ Ginny thinks.

“We did,” Pansy interjects. Her tone is softer than Ginny would have expected but not lacking in spine. She meets Ginny’s eyes evenly and the look in them is by no means pleading but there’s a degree of verisimilitude that manages to disarm Ginny. “Ginny was in the year below me.”

“I was, but that was all a long time ago now,” Ginny says, for lack of anything better to say, maintaining eye contact in the hope that Parkinson gets what she’s trying to say. All in all, it’s an interaction that’s at least three times more intense than what she prefers at events like these and that’s partly why she didn’t want to do this at all. Still, it’s out of the way now if nothing else. 

“Well, I was wondering if there was any chance that we might poach you from the Harpies?” Hollingsworth asks with a laugh. It seems friendly enough, if a little calculated, but his posture has loosened up.

“Trying to steal my players right in front of me?” her coach chides, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Maybe a drink will make you a little more willing to forgive my lapse in manners?” he offers. He whispers something quick to Parkinson before leading her coach to the drinks table.

It’s just her and Parkinson now — who’s trying to look at anyone and anything that isn’t Ginny. Ginny clears her throat. “Parkinson,” she says, then falls silent. She had not planned that far ahead.

“Pansy,” she corrects firmly. Ginny’s eyes snap up from where they were looking at the fabric of Parkinson’s — _Pansy’s_ — dress pooled just below her collarbones and —

“Sorry?”

“Like you said, we’ve been out of Hogwarts for years. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you called me Pansy,” she says. She sounds nonchalant but her grip on her glass is a little more delicate and a small furrow has appeared between her brows.

“Okay then, Pansy,” Ginny says with an obliging smile. “Is he your boyfriend?” Ginny could _kick_ herself. She doesn’t make a habit of asking women about their relationships, especially not right off the bat and especially women whose sexualities are unconfirmed, partly because she hates being asked about it and partly because straight women always seem to think she’s coming onto them and then it becomes a Thing — the point is she doesn’t _do_ this but being out of her depth seems to have her making elementary mistakes.

“Andrew? No, no, he’s a family friend,” Pansy answers, entirely oblivious to her internal crisis. “We were both going anyway so we thought it might be better with familiar company. Speaking of, I’m surprised Lovegood isn’t here with you tonight.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, not really expecting Pansy to have noticed that or bothering to ask. “Luna is meeting her boyfriend’s family tonight and that takes precedence unfortunately.”

Ginny may be willing to make amends with Pansy but it doesn’t mean that they now know how to magically get along. She’s craning her neck, trying to see where their companions have gone off but not really holding out much of finding them, when she feels something rest on her forearm. It’s Pansy Parkinson’s hand which seems like a logical enough conclusion to come to, except it’s not logical and Ginny has the semi-delirious thought of wishing that her sleeves were rolled up so that maybe she could have found out what that skin-to-skin contact might have felt like.

In retrospect, it’s not really delirious. She’s been covertly checking out Pansy since her coach made her stop from making the rounds and she can’t be blamed — not with the way her dress stops at the small of her back and catches onto her hips and the way the plum silk is making her warm brown skin look even more tawny and gorgeous and her full lips painted dark and her _collarbones_ and —

Maybe this isn’t the time for a gay crisis, Ginny notes distantly.

“Look, I know that you seem content letting bygones be bygones but I think that before that can happen, there needs to be a — reconciliation and so” — she pauses and takes a breath — “I wanted to apologise for the way I used to act.”

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Ginny says helpfully. She wasn’t really expecting an actual apology and certainly not one that’s genuine or heartfelt, which might be a little unfair to Pansy but Ginny hasn’t gotten around to adjusting her expectations yet. “That’s… okay. I mean, I appreciate you owning up to it and I know you regret what you did in the Battle so. You know. It’s alright.”

Ginny isn’t sure what she said wrong but she definitely said _something_ because the soft-eyed vulnerable expression on Pansy’s face withers and curdles into something infinitely less lovely.

“I apologised for how I used to act,” Pansy begins in a tone that’s too even, too controlled, and clearly loaded with a bucket of acid, “but I don’t regret what I did that night. I’m not _ashamed_.”

Ginny blinks once then a second time, trying not to jump to the worst conclusion available and mostly failing to and — “What the hell, Parkinson?”

“I’m not doing this here,” she hisses mutinously and throws a cursory glance to the rest of the room. “Come.”

Ginny considers staying for approximately three seconds before her curiosity wins out and she catches up to Pansy with long strides. It’s not until they’re well into the corridor that’s off to the side of the ballroom the event was being held in that Pansy stops, holding out an arm for Ginny to stop as well. 

In an attempt to appear _calm_ and _collected_ and _in control of the situation_ , Ginny leans against the wall then realises that since this wall is one of those meticulously decorated kind of walls — Baroque? She might have caught that word the time she came here with Hermione who immediately started talking about 17th century architecture which was kind of fascinating, actually — she’s going to be fairly uncomfortable for the rest of this conversation. She could move, of course, but that seems like a concession and she’s nothing if not stubborn.

“Explain,” she says without preamble. “Because I’m getting mixed signals from you and I need a better explanation if we’re going to put everything behind us.”

“How have you all survived if you’re _all_ this fucking thick?”

“This is supposed to be winning me over?”

“I shouldn’t have to be winning you over,” Pansy says lowly, fists clenched at her side. “I was seventeen and terrified and with a thirteen-year-old sister in the castle and somehow no one ever seems interested in that because you were all raised to be fucking _self-martyring heroes_.”

By the end of her tirade, Pansy is breathing heavily, taking in hungry and undignified gulps of air, leaning on the wall opposite Ginny, and she won’t risk looking because she doesn’t want to know but she thinks that if she meets her eyes, she might find tears pooling in Pansy’s.

“It’s not like I _wanted_ him to win, I just — I didn’t know I could do better,” she says, her words dragging with exhaustion, and it’s such a familiar sound, one that she’s heard in nearly everyone she loves and in herself too.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Ginny says after a considerable stretch of silence.

She can see Pansy slowly reconstructing the wall around herself, metaphorically shaking off the remains of the conversation, drawing herself up to full height again, and Ginny wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to, that it’s just them in this lonely and hollow, dim corridor, but it’s not her place so she just pushes herself from the wall and waits for Pansy’s answer. 

“Hyacinthia. We call her Cynthia,” she says on an exhale, warm affection clear in her voice. It gratifies Ginny that she’s being given that much still. “She’s graduating from Hogwarts this year. You know, you’re taking this a lot better than Potter did.”

“Yes, well, Harry isn't known for his benevolent temper.”

“I found that out for myself soon enough.”

Something about the statement and — the tone. Something isn’t right. Ginny squints and tilts her head to the side. “Are you friends with Harry?”

“No, of course not, we just have lunch every now and then.”

“Right,” Ginny says slowly, willing her jaw to remain where it is. If the evening hadn't been already too emotionally exhausting, she might have pressed. She supposes she’ll have to settle for badgering Harry about it the next time she sees him. “Do you want to head back now?”

Ginny’s looking to the entrance of the ballroom as she asks and when she turns back to Pansy, she’s two steps closer — perhaps too close. She swallows and it sounds too audible, too loud. Half a step maybe and they would be touching.

If there’s any night for something like this to be happening, tonight definitely isn't that night. So she steps back, towards the ballroom and _other people_ , who aren't Pansy Parkinson and who don't make her feel two dozen different feelings in the span of an hour.

“Yes, Ginny,” Pansy agrees softly from behind her and Ginny has to suppress a _fucking shiver_ at the sound of her name from Pansy’s mouth. She thinks it might be the first time she’s heard Pansy say it. “I think we should go back.”

* * *

It’s a Sunday two weeks later when Ginny figures it’s about time that she’s cornered Harry about the whole Pansy Parkinson business. She hasn’t been obsessing about it — Ginny doesn’t _do_ obsession, that’s Harry’s niche no matter the fact that he’ll never own up to it — but she’s been revisiting that _almost_ moment with alarming frequency, so she thinks that it might help to get some of the intrigue out of the way.

When they headed back to the ballroom, Pansy had drifted away before Ginny had even had the chance to give into the ill-advised urge to ask her if she wanted company for the rest of the evening. She’d caught glimpses of her between dancing with a few very normal, very _ordinary_ people and intimidating some men but never once had Pansy glanced back. Ginny isn’t sure why it matters, but she knows that in some minute or miniscule way, it does.

She approaches Harry after everyone is reasonably stuffed with food and her mother is going around trying to force tupperware containers on her brothers. Harry watches her approach with raised brows which should be kind of hurtful but she’s sure that her face — which in the manner typical of most Gryffindors she’s met, has the subtlety of a hippogriff in a china shop — is giving her away somehow.

“What can I do for you?” he asks with a gracious shrug. He’s using that creepily welcoming customer service voice that he’s gotten really good at since he quit the Aurors and took up studying wandmaking with Ollivander.

“I hear that you’re friends with Pansy Parkinson.” It’s a struggle not to sound accusatory because she isn’t angry or anything, just — suspicious.

“Friends?” Harry echoes, scratching at his chin, then leans back in his armchair. “Hm, not really. We just have lunch every now and then.”

Now, Ginny openly eyes him with distrust. “You know that’s the same thing she said, nearly verbatim?” she throws at him casually before going in for the kill. She plants her elbows on her knees and scoots forward in her chair, aiming for unwaveringly inquisitive without being too demanding. It’s a delicate balance. “Alright, out with it: are you fucking or something?”

“What? Ginny, no,” he sputters, choking on a laugh. He’s running a hand through his hair and shaking his head at her as if she has gone mad. “Not that I don’t want to hear how you came to that conclusion because I very much _do_ , but I don’t think I’m quite up to the Parkinson standard anyway. She would be very insulted by your implications, you know.”

Ginny squints at him and tries to process what he’s saying. She pauses. “So do you _want_ to be fucking her?” she amends, thinking she might be getting warmer.

“ _Ginny_ ,” Harry exclaims, almost aghast, mouth falling open. He stops trying to do her the courtesy of not laughing and is now silently shaking with mirth. She doesn’t really get it. “No, definitely not. Should I be asking you that question, though?”

It’s almost as if she’s been zapped, how suddenly she startles back.

“That’s — that’s cheating,” she says, sullen and indignant at being caught out so easily.

“You grew up with Fred and George, you know cheating isn’t really a definable concept in this house,” he says. “Besides, I think I have my answer.”

“So you’re friends?”

“In a sense,” he acquiesces. Ollivander’s crypticness is clearly rubbing off on him. Ginny doesn’t think she likes it much. “We have lunch occasionally. She’s an interesting enough person and we both like hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“Muggle sport on ice,” Harry quickly explains. “But my turn now — when did _this_ happen?”

“Nothing has _happened_ , there’s no happening of anything occurring,” she answers, a touch too insistent. But it is, in most senses of the word, true — they’ve had one heart-to-heart that gave her emotional whiplash and one _almost_ moment that Ginny thinks might have led to an actual moment and nothing more. Whether Ginny wants to explore the concept of more is another question and not really one worth asking yet.

“Okay,” Harry says, almost like he agrees but there’s an unsettling twinkle in his eye. He’s waiting for her to crack and she _won’t_.

She just about lasts ten seconds.

“Fine, _fine_ , Merlin, you’re pushy,” Ginny huffs. “I saw her at that gala two weeks ago, she ended up apologising, we talked it out, done. She’s — different. Than before, I mean.”

Harry furrows his brow thoughtfully at her last remark. “She is, definitely, but I also think that we never knew her _before_ so we might not be the best judges,” he says, in a tone that makes Ginny think he’s been spending too much time with Ollivander. “And that’s all?” 

Ginny nods stonily. There’s no need to tell him absolutely everything yet. There isn’t really anything more to it except her own conjecture. And anyway — 

“Is she even into women?” Ginny blurts out. She hopes that her voice sounded the least bit blasé but it might be too much to hope for.

“Luckily for you, she is,” he says, smirking. Ginny knows he’s been hanging around Malfoy more these days which is probably where he picked up _that_ smirk from and she knows that she definitely doesn’t like it.

“Right.” She’s not going to bother completely denying because they’re well past that but at the very least she can attempt to save her dignity. “I’m not going to ask her out or anything, I’m not really interested, I’m just” — she pauses to deliberate over a suitable word — “intrigued. I’m intrigued.”

“Right.”

“Well, now that we’re both scarred from that conversation, you have to explain what this hockey thing is,” she says, steering them into an entirely new direction because _see aforementioned scarring_. It’s enough that Harry’s basically her brother at this point. It’s worse because they _dated_ when she was sixteen and lacking proper judgement and very much in denial.

“Yes, sure, please,” Harry agrees so fast the words almost don’t make it out. At least now they’re on the same page.

* * *

It’s still early December so Diagon Alley isn’t too crowded yet but it’s just claustrophobic enough that Ginny is glad that she took her foot off the pedal when it came to wardrobe and just hired someone to handle it because it looks like a solid quarter of Wizarding England is here trying to find something to wear for an Obligatory Christmas Event. 

She almost misses her, thumbing through the books in Flourish and Blotts, trying to find a book weird enough that there’s maybe a 20 per cent chance that Hermione hasn’t read it yet, when she sees Pansy striding up Diagon Alley. Her brain catches up five seconds later and she’s scrambling to put the book back and catch up to Pansy. 

“Pansy!” she calls out, heedless of the few inquisitive glances thrown her way.

Almost a dozen paces ahead of her, she barely sees Pansy faltering, her hair swooping forward and then stopping mid-motion. It’s worth the lick of embarrassment she feels and pushing past angry shoppers to see Pansy’s expression of startled confusion.

“Pansy,” she says again, although much quieter this time, nearly a sigh. “Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a while.”

It’s actually been nearly a month without Ginny seeing or even hearing anything about Pansy, which isn’t necessarily odd since that was the norm for her life _before_ , except now it’s not and it’s infuriating. She’d even tried asking Harry if he had seen Pansy lately and all he gave her was a noncommittal hum, because he’s a _bastard_. Definitely too much hanging around Slytherins.

“Ginny,” Pansy replies, slow like she’s still making sense of Ginny standing in front of her, then seems to shake herself. “Yes, it has been a while.”

“So… what are you up to?”

“I was just getting my last few presents,” Pansy says, lifting an arm to show the bags hanging off of it. “What about you?”

“Well, same as —” Ginny cuts off as the sentence processes in her head. “Wait, you’re saying that it’s December 5th and you’re _done with your Christmas shopping_?”

“Of course.” Her chin is tilted down and her eyes are slightly narrowed and she looks affronted at the very thought of last-minute Christmas shopping which Ginny would’ve called _haughty_ and _stuck up_ not even three months ago but now can’t help but think is adorable. She wonders if maybe she should tell Pansy that and see how she’ll react. It would probably be spectacular.

Ginny is pulled from her reverie when Pansy continues, “Besides, I imagine my list is much shorter than yours.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I mean, I already have _two_ nieces and _two_ nephews.” Ginny means to sound plaintive but it’s difficult to keep the delight from her voice. She loves being an aunt even if it means occasionally changing diapers and getting sick up on her Christmas sweater and extra gifts.

“It must be a busy Christmas at yours then,” Pansy says softly. It’s not wistful but more — wondrous, like she can’t really imagine such a thing. Ginny knows that Pansy’s father is in Azkaban, withering away, so it must be just Pansy, her mother, and her sister, and for all that Ginny complains about how noisy and stressful Christmas at the Burrow is, she doesn’t think she can bear the thought of it being that small and quiet. She suddenly has the absurd notion of inviting Pansy over for Christmas but — no. Definitely not.

“It is,” Ginny says, just as soft. “Listen, um, since you said you’re done with your shopping and if you don’t have anything else to do right now, do you want to maybe get some hot chocolate?”

If Ginny thinks about it realistically, Pansy can’t have taken more than three seconds to contemplate her answer, but it feels a lot like three hours of her face slowly being set on fire, and it’s _only hot chocolate, get a grip, Ginny._

“Sure,” Pansy answers, easy as anything. “But I get to pick where.”

She ends up leading Ginny to a little hole-in-the-wall café towards the south side of Diagon Alley that Ginny swears she’s never seen before. It’s cosy and woodsy and it’s got candles burning in little alcoves in the walls and it’s a fairly more intimate setting than Ginny had planned for when she’d asked if Pansy wanted to join her for a hot chocolate.

 _Still_ , she’s been through a war, she’s been nearly killed more times than she can count, she’s very capable of handling this.

Pansy makes sure that they’ve found a table to sit at and then leaves to get their drinks. She comes back with two mugs piled high with whipped cream and chocolate shavings and it smells _divine_ and Ginny thinks it might make up for how generally discomfited she feels. Once she’s had her first sip two seconds later, she amends that statement to _definitely makes up for it_ because it’s easily the best hot chocolate she’s had. Luna’s Christmas Extravaganza Chocolate Affair (the name was bestowed by George), which has now been bumped down to second place. She doesn’t know how she’s going to tell Luna but she thinks she might be forgiven if she brought her here.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Ginny moans. If she were able to do anything except feel her brain explode into microcosms of gastric pleasure, she might feel a little ridiculous reacting this strongly to chocolate but she’s not able, so it’s a moot point. “I’m so glad I agreed to let you pick out the place.”

“Yes, well,” Pansy says, not elaborating, and delicately clears her throat. The brain explosions have subsided a bit, so she takes a closer look at Pansy. She’s sitting a little stiffy, staring into her mug like it might hold the answers to everything, which might be plausible at this point, but she hasn’t taken a single sip yet, toppings undisturbed. Ginny can’t be sure because of how intimately lit the café is but she thinks Pansy might be blushing. It’s a little more obvious because Pansy seems to blush with her entire face rather than just the apples of her cheeks but that’s not really relevant because —

“Holy shit,” Ginny murmurs, kind of in awe.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m just still in shock over this,” Ginny fumbles, holding up her mug which is already half-empty. “How do they even _make_ it?”

“The recipe is a well-guarded secret,” Pansy answers glumly. Her bottom lip is sticking out in an exaggerated pout and there’s a smidge of whipped cream on it that Ginny wants to kiss off. The urge doesn’t startle her as much as it should. “It’s been in the family for centuries, apparently.”

“So you’ve tried?”

“Endlessly.”

“I noticed you were on the committee for the War Orphans Fund event last but I didn’t see you there,” Ginny says. Charity Gala #4 of the season had been a lonelier night than usual. She’s not sure what the question that she wants to be asking is.

“I wasn’t there,” Pansy confirms, eyes darting down to her lap nervously. “I was tied up working on… other things.”

It’s clear as day the Pansy is lying but Ginny doesn’t call her out on it. She figures she hasn’t earned the right to know what Pansy is blowing off galas for: it could be a secret significant other, it could be a family emergency, it could be an illicit potions ring. The possibilities are infinite and Ginny resigns herself to that fact with a sense maturity earned through years of regular therapy. _Thanks, Hermione_ , she thinks blithely.

“How’s your season, though?” Pansy asks in the stilted way that indicates her desperation for a change of subject.

Ginny loves few things as much as she loves Quidditch so she’s happy to indulge. “We’ve clinched our spot in the quarter-finals even though we’ve got one last game left before the season break,” she answers. This part is easy, and it’s simple and not confusing; she can feel the last of the tension dissipate from her shoulders. “The competition is manageable this year. I think the Wasps might be the strongest team in the league this year. Besides us, of course.”

“But you played them already this season — I was there — and you seemed to manage just fine,” Pansy points out. “You _did_ win.”

“Only because we caught the snitch which isn’t really a solid strategy for winning in professional Quidditch. Besides, who knows what they might come up with before the end of the season?” Ginny pauses. “Wait, you were there?”

“I was. You were pretty impressive,” Pansy admits. “And I’m sure you’ll come up with tricks of your own.”

“Thanks,” Ginny says. She feels almost bashful which is weird because Ginny hasn’t really been bashful about Quidditch since her _first year_ at _Hogwarts_. She wracks her mind for a different subject because not even _Quidditch_ is safe anymore. “I, uh, I noticed you’ve grown out your fringe.”

If Pansy is surprised by the abrupt shift or by how _asinine_ the subject is — her _fringe_? — she has enough grace to not show it. “It doesn’t really work for anyone,” she says by way of answer. “I thought it was high time I got rid of it.”

Ginny hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “You almost made it work.”

“I don’t really do almosts,” Pansy whispers conspiratorially, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes are flickering in the candlelight. Ginny isn’t entirely sure but she doesn’t think they’re still talking about hair. “Anyway, I should go. I have an appointment in half an hour.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. She’s vaguely tingly all over. “I should finish my shopping as well.”

“Well, I’ll see you at the Solstice gala.”

Ginny looks up sharply. It wasn’t a question but it was something akin to a promise which was a victory in Ginny’s book. “You will.”

* * *

Ginny spends the day of the Solstice trying to calm herself down in increasingly absurd ways which only stresses her out more and it’s only when the verge of saying _fuck it_ and staying home that she takes a deep breath and firecalls Luna, asking her to come over.

She’d only seen Luna the day before for tea, to catch up a little. Her farewell comment had been indecipherable as always. “I’m free tomorrow if you need me,” she had said. When Ginny had repeated that she had the gala anyway, Luna had only nodded solemnly and said, “I know.”

It makes a little more sense now.

Luna steps out of the Floo and dusts her skirt. Ginny isn’t sure what it is about but she can already feel her heartbeat becoming more level. They don’t really talk about the gala — which isn’t the heart of it, anyway — or Pansy — which _is_ — but they have more tea (chamomile, Luna insists, because Ginny doesn’t need the caffeine) and Luna offers her radish earrings to go with Ginny’s outfit which are the right colour, sure, but not really her thing.

Once she’s out of the Floo at the venue and she’s handed her coat to the house elf who’s there to welcome the guests, she’s feeling much more in control. The venue isn’t one that she’s completely familiar with but it’s like all the others: golden and ornate, with at least half a dozen chandeliers.

It takes a minute or so but she eventually finds Pansy making nice with some of the people from Magical Sports department. She’s wearing a dress that’s a deep forest green, embroidered with gold throughout, gauzy and ethereal, and Ginny can feel the shaky exhale of the air unwillingly leaving her lungs. It’s almost enough to make her want to go back to the Floo and bury herself in Luna’s couch. She’s sure Rolf won’t mind that much. He’s a nice guy. When she looks down at her hands, there’s the slightest tremble to them.

Luna’s voice floats around in her head almost like a dream, even though it’s scarcely been two hours since she heard the words. “Not knowing isn’t always bad, you know. It means you’re going to learn something new.”

And Ginny is good at new things — she was one of the fastest learners in Dumbledore’s Army, she got through the torturous freshers boot camp with ease, she’s a prime candidate for captaincy and it’s only her third year of professional Quidditch. She has an enviable learning curve. She knows that. But it’s been a long time — four years — since she’s lacked this kind of foreknowledge. _Maybe here’s to not knowing_ , Ginny thinks hopefully.

She wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, though, so she small talks with some people she barely knows in passing, grounds herself in some more familiar faces, and slowly, carefully, circles her way round the room, making her way to Pansy.

It’s a strange sensation of deja vu when she slips into the conversation Pansy is politely half-listening to. Pansy pretends to be interested for around ten more seconds before she quietly excuses herself and sidles up to Ginny’s side and Ginny is heady with it.

“How very Gryffindor of you,” Pansy whispers but it’s lacking any derision.

Ginny thinks she might be referring to her chivalrously coming to rescue her from what must be an awfully boring conversation then she follows Pansy’s gaze and realises that she’s talking about her outfit which is only a few shades lighter than blood red.

“I would say Christmassy, actually, but in that case, how very Slytherin of _you_ ,” Ginny shoots back.

“Touché.”

Ginny clears her throat and asks in a voice so low it’s almost inaudible, “Do you want to go dance?”

She knows that Pansy has heard her by the way the muscles of her shoulders tense against Ginny’s arm; Ginny doesn’t push for an answer — for her own sake or for Pansy’s, she doesn’t know. After a considerable pause, Pansy takes in a breath and says, “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Great,” Ginny mumbles and offers Pansy a hand, which Pansy accepts and Ginny shouldn’t be this affected by Pansy’s soft, fawny skin and loose grip on her hand except she is and she has to actively stop the hitch in her breathing.

The music playing is a waltz — it’s early in the evening so it’s still the Respectable Music portion of the night before someone lets a nineteen-year-old take over and increasingly questionable choices are made. Even with Pansy in heels, Ginny has a solid two inches on her so Pansy has to look up at Ginny unless she wants to be looking at Ginny’s neck the entire time. Ginny isn’t sure what is worse — making eye contact with Pansy or having Pansy see the ridiculous blush that’s furiously making its way up her neck because of their proximity. Although maybe she could blame the blush on physical exertion?

It’s not until Pansy’s hand on her shoulder tightens and she whispers, “Merlin, loosen up,” that Ginny realises she’s been borderline wooden.

“You know, I almost didn’t come,” Ginny murmurs into Pansy’s ear. They’re so close that she barely has to let the air pass through her lips.

“Why?” Pansy asks sharply.

“I was nervous,” Ginny admits with a shrug.

“Oh. Well, that’s unnecessary,” Pansy says and Ginny swears she can feel her inch minutely until it's almost at the side of her neck.

“It is?”

“Yes,” Pansy breathes out. “Quite.”

Two songs later, Pansy — by slow, painful, _exquisite_ increments — is clinging onto Ginny, head resting against her shoulder and they're doing little more than swaying. Ginny’s sure that Pansy can hear or _feel_ the racing thumps of her pulse but she doesn't think she minds all that much anymore. At the end of that number, Pansy stills and puts both her hands on Ginny’s shoulders to bring her to a halt.

“I — I should go,” Pansy says. She sounds as if she's trying to tell herself rather than Ginny but Ginny keeps that particular thought to herself.

“Of course.”

“I should probably give the others a chance,” Pansy continues and she’s — smiling. It’s barely more than a quirk of her lips but Ginny doesn't think she’s ever seen Pansy just _smile_ and it's — stunning, that's what it is and Ginny can only grin helplessly, Merlin help her. “Well — try, at any rate. But it’s good to see that you're light on your feet.”

Just as Pansy’s right hand is about to leave her shoulder, she catches it and brings it slowly to her lips to press the ghost of a kiss in the centre, maintaining eye contact with Pansy the entire time. Pansy closes her eyes for a moment and visibly swallows like this is a little too much which is only fair because that’s how Ginny has been feeling the whole night and Ginny feels like she's earned the right to indulge in a smirk.

“I’ll see you later,” Ginny says as she lets go of Pansy’s hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's — good,” Pansy says, words sticky like she has trouble getting them out and more than a little breathless.

* * *

They’re not down to stragglers yet, Ginny notes, but people are starting to leaving, lingering with tired eyes to say their last goodbyes so she pushes herself off the wall where she’s been nursing a glass of champagne for the last thirty minutes. She hasn’t touched the wine even though everyone’s been telling her that it’s great because it makes her sloppy and she doesn’t want to need a Sobriety Potion. A few minutes of searching yields Pansy near the stand where the string quartet had played a few hours before, bearing a conversation with a stout, red-faced man with what seems a great deal of restraint if her white-knuckled grip on her clutch is anything to go by.

Ginny is generally nice enough and currently impatient enough to go and rescue Pansy. She shoots what she hopes is an apologetic smile at the man and says, “I hate to interrupt but I need to steal Pansy away urgently.”

“Ah, Miss Weasley,” the man says, like they’re familiar which they’re not but Ginny isn’t willing to say anything that would prompt more talking. “You know Miss Parkinson?”

There’s more than friendly curiosity in his tone — a hint of censure? “Yes, rather well, actually,” she answers forcefully and before the man can reply, grabs Pansy’s elbow and steers her away. “If you’ll excuse us.”

“Thank you,” Pansy whispers. “That man is _insufferable_.”

“Anytime,” Ginny says. “Reminded me a bit of Slughorn and I don’t know about you but Slughorn was slimy.”

“Agreed,” Pansy says with a shudder. “But at least I knew he didn’t like me. This arsehole talks like he thinks I should be in Azkaban but he also says I would be great for his son.”

“ _What_?” 

“I know.” She waves her hand in a clear dismissal of the topic. “But I do owe you one.”

“Well, in that case,” Ginny drawls, leaning closer to Pansy, hand still on her elbow, “I can think of a way you can pay me back.”

Pansy gently pushes her backwards with twinkling eyes and a face like it’s having trouble keeping still. “You can wait until we get to the Floo.”

“I can?”

“Yes.” Then when Ginny proceeds to draw circles on the inside of Pansy’s elbow with her thumb, Pansy adds, “But we can walk there quicker.”

They remember to fetch their coats in an impressive feat of multitasking and don’t bother to put them back on. The Floo is small enough that they have to crowd together (Ginny has to stoop and she’s close enough to smell the honeysuckle of Pansy’s perfume) while Pansy scoops the powder with slightly shaky hands. Ginny is sure Rita Skeeter will have something to say about this come morning but she can’t muster up the appropriate concern.

When they stumble into what Ginny assumes is the parlour of Parkinson Place, everything is deathly silent for a moment. For some reason, Ginny had expected it to look like Malfoy Manor — all gloomy greys and dark opulence — but from what she can see, it’s done up in pretty pastels. Mint for the parlour. Then Pansy tugs at her hand and takes her up the staircase, down a path she couldn’t even try to trace if her life depended on it.

It’s only when Pansy stops them and she hears the snick of a door closing that she realises that they’re in Pansy’s bedroom. Ironically, it’s purple, mainly lilac. Ginny acknowledges that her brain, as well as her jackrabbit heart, might be going a little haywire.

Pansy is standing with her back to Ginny, looking sideways with her hair draped over her shoulder, under her chin. “Help me out?” she asks, so quietly but it rings out in Ginny’s ears.

Later, when she recalls the night, she’ll struggle to figure how she could have unbuttoned them — they’re unbelievably small and fragile. Somehow though, she does, all twelve of them and lets her hands rest on the jut of Pansy’s shoulder blades. It’s always a marvel to feel the unblemished softness of Pansy’s skin compared to the calluses all over Ginny’s hands. Pansy’s gasp when Ginny leans forward to place her lips on the exposed side of her throat feels like it might be enough to completely undo Ginny and _nothing’s happened yet._

Then Pansy turns around and her face is close enough that Ginny can see the flecks of gold in her irises. But it might just be the light reflected in them. Pansy moves and their noses bump and — their lips touch just as Ginny inhales. It’s barely a kiss. Ginny almost vibrates out of her skin. Then Pansy twists the rest of the way and clutches at Ginny’s face and their lips are now moving against each other and _oh_. This kiss feels like relearning her body with every point of contact between her and Pansy. Pansy is warm and more pliant than Ginny expects, hands loose as she leans her weight on Ginny, eliminating any concept of space between them, but her lips are fierce and insistent and unyielding. She licks into Ginny’s mouth and nibbles on her lower lip and kisses her way down Ginny’s neck, alternating between long sucks and languid open-mouthed kisses, and Ginny doesn’t think that she might be able to keep them upright any longer. She registers that the bed is a few feet behind Pansy and begins to guide them towards.

When she notices their movements, Pansy pauses in her ministrations to say, “Careful, there’ll be hell to pay if you tear this dress. It was embroidered by hand,” in what Ginny thinks is far too even a tone.

Ginny uses this opportunity to kiss Pansy, more thoroughly this time, leaving no stone unturned and no crevice unexplored, threading her hands through Pansy’s hair and biting her lip for good measure. There’s no use in pretending she isn’t gratified when Pansy moans unabashedly and whispers, “ _Shit_ ,” in a much more appropriate tone, scrabbling ineffectually at Ginny’s top.

Just when her fingers catch at the hem, Pansy’s knees hit the edge of the bed and she falls backwards, landing on her elbows. She looks achingly debauched; her hair is in shambles from Ginny’s fingers; her eyes are glazed over and slightly unfocussed, her face pink and lips kiss-bitten; her dress has slid down her shoulder to reveal her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. Ginny is light-headed just from the sight of her.

“What should we do now?” Pansy rasps.

“I think I might have a few ideas,” Ginny says and falls forward.

* * *

Ginny wakes up with Pansy’s arm laid around her midriff. The pale winter morning sunlight filters in through the wide, paneled windows, illuminating dust motes in the air and making it shimmer all around them. Ginny tries to take that as a hopeful omen of some kind.

She can’t really see Pansy’s face with hair covering it so she entertains herself with counting the smattering of moles scattered across her shoulder and arm until Pansy begins to stir and looks up at Ginny. There’s an element of delighted surprise in the confused expression Pansy greets Ginny with — the way her eyes brighten, the sharp inhale — that makes something unnamed tap dance beneath Ginny’s ribs.

“Morning,” Ginny gets out. She’s sure her face is doing something frighteningly besotted. She’s not sure she really cares.

“Morning,” Pansy parrots back, lips into a smile that’s lilting at the corners, and promising to ruin Ginny. “I’ve got” — she gropes behind her for her wand and casts a _Tempus_ — “half an hour before I have to get ready for a last minute meeting. Feel like waking me up properly?”

Ginny surges up, flipping Pansy onto her back and looming over her. One hand smooths down Pansy’s side to pin down her right hip while the other creeps upward to capture her wrists above her head. Pansy squirms away when Ginny ghosts her breath over the junction between her ear and her neck then succumbs to a barely-there moan when Ginny bites down. “Let me see if I can fit you onto my itinerary,” Ginny whispers and finally gives up on the teasing to kiss her soundly.

She tries to be as thorough as possible, going deep and then pulling back to trail her tongue across Pansy’s lower lip, until they’re both breathless and Pansy’s arching her back and trying to force her way out of Ginny’s grip. Probably to add to the collection of scratches she left on Ginny’s back throughout the night.

Just as Ginny is about move south, she sees Pansy, flushed all over and wanton and seemingly — _impossibly_ — happy to be there, trapped beneath Ginny’s gaze and hands. “Have dinner with me,” Ginny blurts out. “Since we were talking about my itinerary. Boxing Day.”

Pansy stills, a painful contrast to the ease and abandon of an hour ago. Suddenly cold all over like someone opened the window, Ginny retrieves her hands and sits back, cross-legged.

“Did I say something wrong?” Ginny asks cautiously.

“No, no, I just —” Pansy looks at Ginny, shoulders hunched, almost apologetic. “You don’t really want this, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Ginny bleats. “I asked because I literally couldn’t not. I want this. I want _you_.”

Pansy looks away then, her back all hostile angles and still lovely. The tension is palpable though, and Ginny can see it in Pansy’s obvious swallow, feel it in her own bated breath. The silence preys on them for long minutes as Pansy contemplates some secret dilemma that Ginny is loath to interrupt for fear of getting her foot in her mouth.

“I’d love to,” she says but there are too many cracks in how her mouth moves around the words, and too much softness, that Ginny already knows to brace herself, “but I can’t.”

“Not won’t?”

“It’s all the same.”

“It’s not,” Ginny insists. “You know it’s not. What’s the matter?”

Ginny sees Pansy’s mouth purse in profile, her hand going to grip her own elbow before Ginny can reach out. When Pansy speaks again, her tone is lifeless and liquid smooth. “Nothing. This was fun but I won’t be able to make it to dinner.”

 _Good enough to dance with and fuck but not good enough for dinner?_ Ginny thinks but never says because even in her head, it’s too many steps too far. It’s all the ugliness of growing with half a dozen rowdy brothers and no limits, the cruelties of the war, the years of hero worship and repression, and the many, many shitty things that Ginny has lived through. So instead, Ginny asks, “Do I get a reason why?”

“Not that you should require one” – here Pansy’s eyes cut to Ginny for the first time since they pulled away from each other and before Ginny can parse the emotion behind them, move to the window again – “but it’s just not what I’m after right now. Besides, it wouldn’t work anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re very — different,” Pansy says, “and we come from different backgrounds and it just — it wouldn’t work.”

“Right,” Ginny says, so tightly she can feel the single syllable working its way up every ring of her trachea. When she looks down, she finds her hands white-knuckled, fisted in the lilac satin. It shouldn’t shock her this much, that Pansy Parkinson is still a bitch, incapable of looking past what should be behind them, no matter what she had said before. It shouldn’t stab at her this much, that the voice in her head that she’s been shoving down for so long seems to have gotten it right for once. None of this should have matter so much but clearly, Ginny hasn’t been paying quite as much as she should have. All at once, she needs to leave, to be far, far away from all this, the absurdity of this bleak morning. How quickly it collapsed.

She turns to swing her legs off the bed and pick up her clothes and put them on. “Right,” she says again once she’s dressed, all the while looking away from Pansy. “In that case, I’ll just leave. Don’t bother owling.” And then, she walks away, waiting for Pansy to call her back, say her name, anything. In the end, Pansy does nothing, just lets her walk away.

But why let dance around her — _with_ her — last night? For the past few weeks, if Ginny really wanted to interrogate the affair? Much, much later, Ginny recalls the way Pansy hadn’t looked at her; all the tension in her back that seemed to thread a pattern of something oddly like guilt; the way looking at Pansy’s face, before _everything_ , had briefly felt like looking in a mirror. Then the thought occurs to her that for a Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson can be an awful liar.

* * *

The next month passes with predicted amounts of fanfare and Ginny — she’s not having the time of her life but she’s enjoying herself. She’s doing well. She has dinner and tea with various friends and family and she laughs uproariously and coos lovingly at the latest antics of her nieces and nephews. For the first time in three years, she feigns sickness and begs off the Quidditch league annual quarter-final dinner when she sees Pansy’s name on the list of charity committee members.

She goes out less so there’s less chance of running into Pansy and having to pretend that everything is _casual_. When she lets herself think about it, she alternates between mortification, plain anger, and an odd ache that seems to echo through her like the very core of her magic. It’s a shitty, shitty limbo to be stuck in — all the awkwardness and hurt of a break up but nothing to show for it other than a line of love bites that had faded by Christmas.

She thinks Hermione might suspect something of her general angst and that Harry might suspect that something happened between her and Pansy because he looks like he might say something important a few times before shaking his head and asking if she wanted some tea, most times.

It’s for the best, she tells herself. Sure, she’s only half-convinced but she’s getting there. She’s getting better.

* * *

One thing that’s _definitely_ been helping her get better is throwing herself at her job, full-force, no holds barred, and it’s going great, better than that, even, and it’s something that will at least, reciprocate what she’s putting into it — people have been saying that it’s her best season yet and she absolutely demolished Puddlemere in their first game of the new year. It’s not fair, she knows, to blame Pansy for her hurt feelings when they hadn’t agreed on anything but if being petty and clinging onto her job helps her get through this then so be it.

Maybe that’s her downfall, that she’s a little too determined. So determined that she ignores the rotten feeling at the pit of her stomach festering still even as she’s mounting her broom and kicking off. She’s not sure why she’s so uneasy but it might be the way the desperation is rolling off of the Appleby Arrows in almost tangible waves; their star seeker had moved to the Wasps this season and they’d been steadily slipping down the League tables. 

But as soon as the pierce of the whistle sounds, there’s no longer any time to think on it anymore, as she zooming upwards to grab hold of the Quaffle, slipping under the arm of one of the Arrows’ chasers, passing it to Kayla under her only to get it back a moment later, barely letting herself catch it before she redirects it to the hoop on the right — and it goes in, by a margin of whole seconds. It’s almost too easy but it feels so good to have her mind in one piece, not split into at least three different places, wondering and dreaming and _hoping_ and — it’s not the place for this, the only place these thoughts can’t touch so she forcibly pushes them away.

She’s grinning and waving broadly at the stands when she hears the tell-tale sound of a Bludger cutting through the air getting closer and turns her head just in time to feel it brush against her skull, her heart rioting in fear against her ribs.

“Get that thing the fuck away from me!” she shouts in the vague direction of the Harpies’ beaters when she manages to unstick her heart from the inside of her throat.

In hindsight, Ginny realises that it takes her far too long to figure out that the Bludger is tailing her. Even though it’s not quite as ostentatious as that rogue Bludger that broke Harry’s arm in her first year at Hogwarts, intermittent chunks of time are repeatedly punctuated by a near miss with a Bludger: her wand arm once, then her side, her head again, her foot, but they’re only near misses and her mind is currently unconcerned with something so trivial as a near miss — in fact, it’s probably grateful for the extra challenge.

They’re halfway through the game and Ginny is gearing to score their eighteenth point; she’s surrounded by two chasers and the keeper is matching her move for move and she’s never felt more alive because this is what she plays for — what she lives for — the thrill of an impossible shot, the effort it takes out of her, the final moment when the keeper moves a hair too slow and there’s one right angle for her to throw the Quaffle in and somehow, she makes it one more time. The air whooshes out of her lungs and she laughs when she catches the keeper staring at her dumbly, spitefully.

She hears Kayla cheer her name except — she’s not cheering, there’s an unmistakable tone of dread. The Bludger hits her right side just as she’s turning around — the _crack_ of her ribs under the impact is an ugly sound that she knows will be haunting her nightmares and she’s pushed off her broom, falling, _falling_ —

She closes her eyes just before she hits the ground.

* * *

Usually when she ends up at St Mungos, the first thing she sees is the cracked ceiling but this time, she’s treated to the sight of a lime green blob coming into focus as her eyes become accustomed to being open again. Ginny’s brain places the frizzy, blonde curls a second later — Healer Munroe. Ah, yes, her ribs. When she swivels her head, she sees her mother at her bedside, both of her hands clutching at Ginny’s left hand.

“Oh, Ginevra,” her mother sighs wetly, which means she was seriously worried.

“See, Mrs Weasley, I told you she’ll be fine,” Healer Munroe says with a light laugh. “It looked worse than it actually was, which is very normal for cases like this.”

“How long have I been out for?” Ginny croaks out before her mother can inevitably start fretting again.

Healer Munroe consults their chart, then answers. “Less than twenty-four hours which bodes well for your recovery — _not_ ,” they interject sharply when Ginny’s excitement shows itself, “that that means that you’ll be anywhere near a broom for the rest of this month.”

“At least it’s February,” she mutters which garners a laugh from Munroe and a frown from her mother. 

Munroe goes into Strict Healer mode again in the span of a second. “You had four broken ribs, a dislocated knee, and a medium-grade concussion, all of which require _a lot_ of rest,” they say. “You can go home tonight but I would strongly recommend staying with someone else this week in case your head injury has any other side effects.”

 _I can already tell you another side effect — I’m hallucinating_ , Ginny almost says aloud, when she catches sight of a familiar dark head of hair behind Harry when he opens the door to enter. He gives Ginny a pleased grin and a small wave as Munroe seemingly continues their lecture to Ginny about taking care of herself, not that she’s really listening. She’s sure her mother is paying attention enough for them both.

“Hey, Gin,” Harry says, sliding into the chair her mother has just emptied. “How are you feeling?”

She has a generic answer about feeling like complete shit queued up in her head. “I think I’m hallucinating because I saw Pansy Parkinson standing behind you just now,” she says instead. That might be because of the medium-grade concussion and the pain potions she’s on.

The thought that the rapid progression of Harry’s facial expression is hilarious occurs to her as she watches it go from concerned to stricken and then settle on a mix of apprehension and sheepishness. It’s around the same time that she realises that she isn’t hallucinating and Pansy Parkinson is very likely standing outside the door of her hospital room.

“Harry,” she says, almost a question in itself, “what is she doing here?”

There is a considerable pause before Harry answers but it could be Ginny’s woozy brain stretching the time out. “She was at the game and saw you fall. Came straight to my door, nearly broke it down, then demanded I come here and check on you,” he answers, pulling at his ear. “She’s been bugging me for hourly updates.”

“What,” Ginny says, thoughts regarding hallucinations returning full-force. Harry doesn’t seem very shocked by Pansy’s behaviour but then again, Harry wasn’t there when Pansy had all but rejected her by heavily hinting that Ginny wasn’t good enough for her.

“Gin?” Harry’s worried tone floats in. “You alright there?”

It occurs to Ginny that she’s likely been zoning out and that zoning out is probably not great when it comes to people with head injuries. Harry looks approximately three seconds from calling Healer Munroe back in so she shakes herself to the best of her ability, gives him a winsome smile, and says, “Yeah, no, it’s fine.”

It doesn’t take away the expression that says that he thinks she’s going to succumb to internal bleeding in her brain from his face but he’s apparently reassured enough to excuse himself to check on Pansy. “Like I said, hourly updates,” he explains and shrugs.

Then he leaves her with her confusion. She assumes that she and her confusion will get to enjoy each other’s company for a good while but after what can’t be much longer than five minutes, the door opens again. Ginny has a quip for Harry about having satisfied his boss and made it back alive but it shrivels up in her mouth when she sees that Pansy is the one who’s just entered the room.

“Hi,” Ginny manages after a long, full minute of painfully exposing, nerve-wrackingly silent eye contact. Merlin, she never wants to live through another minute like that.

“Hi,” Pansy says back, more shaky and shy than Ginny has ever heard her before. Which makes no sense because that’s how Ginny should sound, then again, nothing about Pansy Parkinson being in her hospital room makes any sense so she might as well give up now.

“I didn’t think — what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check on you,” Pansy says then clears her throat. She’s standing by the charmed window, her fingernails picking at the thread poking out of the curtain’s hem.

A faint, familiar current of anger starts to rise up in Ginny’s blood. It’s tamped down by the pain potions and the confusion, but it’s there growing stronger. “What right do you think you have to check on me?” Ginny asks, words scalding as they roll off her tongue. It would be nice to be cool and collected and calm, but this — this familiar heat — will do just fine.

“Excuse me?” It’s a wonder that Pansy looks actually shocked, almost comically so: the eyebrows raised to her hairline, her eyes wide and almost pleading, her mouth just parted.

“I _said_ ,” Ginny bites out, “what right do you think you have to check on me? Or to come here at all?”

“Obviously because I care,” Pansy replies, vehement, seemingly having gotten over her shock.

Ginny laughs, then laughs again, partly because she can’t help it and partly to drive the point home. “Obviously? Which part of this is obvious?” Ginny snorts. “The part where we fucked and then you rejected me and never attempted to contact me again? Is that where the caring comes in?”

For that singular moment, Ginny is so grateful for the lack of filter that the pain potions provide. Even if she knows that it isn’t really the pain potions, that this has been building for a long time and this was just an opportunity to let it out, then she can be grateful for the excuse.

“You told me to not owl!” Pansy yells, then clamps her mouth shut when she realises that she’s going to end up drawing the attention of a nurse.

“Of course I did,” Ginny says. “I had some dignity left. It was bad enough that you basically said I wasn’t good enough for you. I didn’t need having to pretend that everything was fine and dandy on top of it.”

“When,” Pansy says, tone very careful, “did I say that?”

“‘We come from different backgrounds and it just wouldn’t work’,” Ginny quotes with a vindictive smile. “I remember very well, even with the head injury.”

Pansy blanches at that, and her face almost wilts. “So bloody thick,” she whispers, though it doesn’t seem to be to Ginny even if it must surely refer to her, then pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes.

“What?” Ginny demands into the vacant silence, the nerves that she thought were extinguished making a reappearance. “Out with it, Parkinson.”

“Pansy,” she corrects quietly. “Ginny, what do you think if me, daughter of known Death Eater and the person who attempted to hand Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord, and you, War Heroine extraordinaire, decided to start dating?”

“And? It’s not like neither of us are familiar with the attention,” Ginny says, sullen. She doesn’t _want_ to see Pansy’s point but it still winks at her. “We danced at the gala just fine. What kind of disaster would dinner have brought?”

“Piles of hate mail,” Pansy intones. “More threats. More remarks from every single person in Wizarding Britain. For both of us but maybe I just didn’t want to deal with it.”

There’s something grating about the way Pansy is shifting, how she won’t quite look at Ginny, that reminds Ginny of that morning. She thinks it might be Pansy’s tell.

“And you just aren’t looking for a relationship, right?” Ginny guesses, hoping that she might be wrong, that it would be something else. But there’s no way that Ginny can misconstrue how Pansy finally goes still, the relief in her voice when she sighs, “Yes.”

“I enjoyed spending time with you, though,” Pansy ventures, and Ginny is so, _so_ tired. “Maybe we can be friends?”

Ginny thinks about it for a second. She thinks about the throb and poking pain that has underscored this entire encounter, and the way her brain is throwing itself against the walls of her skull out of sheer frustration. Then she thinks about the fact that even through the haze of potions, even through the disorientation, this is the most she’s felt alive in months and it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s just escaped death and everything to do with Pansy fucking Parkinson.

“Yes,” Ginny says, face breaking into a slow smile. She thinks she might be able to bear the side effects and with time, maybe things will get better. “Friends.”

Then Pansy smiles at her, the same radiant thing that she’d directed towards Ginny at the gala, more intoxicating than moonshine, and Ginny thinks, _Maybe not._

* * *

And so the saga of being Pansy Parkinson’s friend begins.

She’s not allowed near a broom for at least six weeks, and housebound for the first week of it. Pansy, agonisingly enough, keeps her company through it all even through her initial stay at the Burrow. _Especially_ through her initial stay at the Burrow.

She’d taken up the habit of popping in the early afternoon — even if only for half an hour before hurrying back to her various businesses — and in the evening where she would play Muggle card games and Wizard’s chess with Ginny, and read her the most outrageous bits of news from the most tawdry gossip rags.

After Ginny returns to her flat, Pansy Parkinson is still determinedly integrating herself into Ginny’s life, not that she puts up much of a fight, but it’s the thought that counts. She sees Pansy almost every day, and it’s always, _always_ filled with tiny exquisite bits of torture.

If she’s accompanying Ginny to the Harpies’ practices then it’s watching the wind ruffle her hair and be fiercely reminded of how it felt to run her fingers through it and feel the _want_ bubble up inside of her like liquid gold, so much so she almost wants to check that she’s not glowing with it. And there’s hearing Pansy comment on the Harpies’ strategy and hold her own when it comes to talking stats and prospects — and Merlin help her, she’s a Quidditch player, she didn’t think she had a Quidditch kink but it’s hard to deny that she’s never wanted to kiss Pansy more than when she’d pointed out how the Wasps could easily outmaneuver the formation they were trialing at the time.

It gets worse. There’s having coffee or lunch with her, Pansy beckoning her closer over the table to conspiratorially keep her updated on Puddlemere’s going-ons, eyes sparkling with mischief; Pansy sitting stoically glaring at the Appleby Arrows' entire roster steadily all through the league's inquisition, keeping a protective around Ginny's shoulders; and the galas that they both still go to, though separately, occasionally passing one another, not that Ginny fools herself with thinking that she’s not very obviously pining all through the night.

At the three week mark, when Ginny’s reached her limit of mooning and mournfully wanking, she suggests a night out with her teammates who wheedle a round of drinks out of her before agreeing. She gets dressed up and spiritedly scans the bar for potential hook-ups before settling on a pretty brunette. She does all the right things that worked before — she sends her a drink then sidles up to her, chats her up and grins roguishly and charmingly, leads her to the dance floor and leaves lingering touches — and if she’d wanted it to work, then it would have. But it feels dull, the thing is. The conversation is pleasant but it’s not thrilling nor intimate; her skin is warm and dry but it doesn’t leave Ginny’s fingertips singing; her eyes aren’t the right shade of brown and her nose is perfectly straight. _It’s no good_ , Ginny thinks as she makes her excuses. _I’m buggered._

But perhaps, worst of all, are the occasions when Pansy has been busy all day and pops her head through the Floo to announce that she’s coming over with takeaway and a bottle of wine or two. She never really asks, though Ginny doesn’t know if it’s mere brazenness or that Pansy has figured out that Ginny would never refuse her, not in a million years. Then it’s an entire evening of watching Pansy sprawl possessively all over her loveseat, noisily slurping noodles, somehow sophisticatedly undignified and so gorgeously human — when Ginny wants to feel particularly maudlin, she thinks of the fact that probably not many people get to see Pansy like this and it makes her almost crack with joy and it’s still _not enough_. She watches Pansy delicately sip at her wine, even half a bottle in, long, spindly, _elegant_ fingers wrapped around the stem of Ginny’s cheap wineglasses. One evening, Pansy had caught Ginny staring at her hands and offhandedly revealed that she’d taken piano lessons as a child, then gotten up to demonstrate on the baby grand that had come with Ginny’s flat and had been collecting dust in its corner, glancing back at Ginny every few seconds, the music stripping Pansy's face to intimidating focus and tender attention; Ginny had almost cried and blinked the tears out of her eyes because of how lovely and impossible it all felt.

Most nights like this, she spends half the evening on the verge of kissing her, watching the firelight and shadows play across Pansy’s face, the curve of her jaw when she’s turned away, knowing that she could kiss her and drag her to bed and the next morning, they could blame it on the wine and their history and how well they get along. She catches Pansy staring back, eyes like a hearth, her body unwound and fluid. She remembers the way Pansy’s mouth would open up, pliant beneath hers.

But she never does more than make sure that Pansy has Flooed home safely and then stare forlornly at the smoldering coals left behind. Because _hypothetically_ , she could kiss her and touch her and take what she can and pine for the rest, but really, she couldn’t — she could never bear the feeling of touching her again and not have it mean anything more than fleeting pleasure for her. It turns her fingers to stone every time, how cold she feels all over when the thought strikes her.

* * *

If someone had asked Ginny six months ago what she thought she would be doing on a cloudy, very ordinary Tuesday afternoon, she would have never said having lunch with Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson in a Muggle restaurant, watching them snipe at each other, mostly about hockey — which she is slowly learning about by piecing together the conversation — but also generally about the state of the other’s life.

Uncharacteristically enough, Ginny remains for the most part silent though it's not like her companions are begging for her contributions, anyway, unless it’s to try to get her to agree with their remarks. Ginny, between very gentle rounds of footsie with Pansy that are slowly making a flush make its way up her neck, is getting the distinct feeling that she is perhaps finally and truly approaching her wits’ end, and is very much on the verge of spontaneously combusting.

“Ginny, most darling friend of mine,” Pansy begins, moving pleading eyes to Ginny, “please tell Potter here that it has never been tasteful to keep beheaded house elves on one’s staircase.”

“Oh come on, you _know_ Kreacher would behead _me_ if I tried to take them off the wall,” Harry argues, waving his chips around like a pointer. “He’s disturbingly attached to them. I’m not really fond of them but surely someone must have found them tasteful if they put them up in the first place.”

Pansy scowls at him, unimpressed. “The Black line, though ancient, has never had much in the way of refined tastes,” she sniffs, turning up her nose and acting every bit the pureblood that she was raised to be. Ginny definitely shouldn’t be endeared but unfailingly, she is. “And he’s _your_ house elf — it’s _your_ house — not the other way around.”

Ginny gets the impression that she is no longer a necessary part of this segment of the conversation. Harry proves her right when he doesn’t even look her way when he replies. Pansy, on the other hand, seems to be at least peripherally aware of her, enough to let the point of her heel wrap around Ginny’s shin and making her choke on her Coke.

“I can’t say I don’t agree with the first bit, but Kreacher’s been in Grimmauld Place since before my parents were _born_ ,” Harry says, just a bit indignant. Hermione has well and truly indoctrinated him. “It does feel like his house just as much as mine, and you know I don't just order him about.”

“Well, you have my word that I’ll never get past your parlour so long as they remain there in all their grotesque — grotesqueness,” Pansy replies, with the air of someone who has laid down a trump card, albeit a dubious one.

“Has he even ever invited you to Grimmauld Place anyhow?” Ginny asks pointedly, throwing a sly glance Pansy’s way.

“Not relevant,” Pansy answers, waving a hand vaguely in Ginny’s direction. "And terrible etiquette on his part, for that matter."

“I think it’s fairly relevant, Parkinson,” Harry interjects, leaning forward. Having been reacquainted with Ginny’s presence, he turns to her and says, “So Ginny who do you think wins this one?”

“Harry, I love you like a brother, but you know those things are a monstrosity,” Ginny says, trying her best to look apologetic. It’s a difficult task when Pansy is smirking triumphantly at her and the bare skin of Pansy’s foot is _in contact with_ the bare skin of Ginny’s calf, but she thinks Harry should appreciate her valiant efforts regardless.

“This isn’t fair!” Harry exclaims. “I mean we all know Ginny’s biased.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ginny sputters, trying to get a handle on how her heartbeat has abruptly spiked.

Harry seems to realise his slip and sheepishly grins at Ginny. “I — well, you know,” he says lamely.

It shouldn’t surprise Ginny that Harry has figured it out. The only person who knows more about her side of things than Harry is Luna, who bore the brunt of Ginny’s woe-betide routine. She also knows that she’s most likely been lacking subtlety for a while now and Harry’s not really as unobservant as he was before the War. Perhaps the only reason that she’s lasted this long without blowing her cover is that somewhere out there, Pansy Parkinson is receiving awards for being the most oblivious person on the planet.

And it hits her how utterly hopeless this is, how so very fucked she is. How much loneliness is in store for her, and how much ache. She’ll enjoy herself, sure, she’ll savour every second but will she ever be really happy with it? All of a sudden, she can no longer muster the energy to sustain the façade.

“Do you mean biased towards logical arguments?” Pansy says, snapping Ginny out of her thoughts, and as always, oblivious to Ginny’s feelings.

“You know, I don’t think I feel very well right now,” Ginny says, slowly getting up and brushing imaginary dust off her trousers before leaving a few banknotes on the table. “I think I’ll go home and rest.”

While Pansy’s eyes laser focus on her, Harry attempts to grimace an apology which she shakes her head at. It’s not his fault she ended up falling arse over tea kettle for Pansy bloody Parkinson.

“Do you need anything? Should I come with you?” Pansy asks, all concern, bringing her hand to rest atop Ginny’s on the chair’s back, and it’s entirely too much.

“I — no, no, I’ll be fine,” Ginny says, soft. She’s not sure how Pansy isn’t seeing _everything_ all over her face but small mercies, she supposes.

Before Pansy can have the chance to _contemplate_ the expression on Ginny’s face any longer, Ginny bids them goodbye and heads for the apparition point.

* * *

Ginny had been entirely too hasty in thinking that she’d seen the last of Pansy for the day. Pansy may have been ignorant of Ginny’s _bias_ but apparently, it didn’t mean that she was going to be let off the hook for the afternoon’s unexpected exit.

Pansy’s head pops into her fireplace just as Ginny feels herself getting over the last of the evening’s drunkenness from when she’d downed a few mini bottles of Firewhiskey that some arse-kissing company or another had sent her as soon as she’d gotten home. The second she catches sight of Pansy’s face, she instantly sobers up which is not something she had thought was possible within the laws of reason.

“Are you decent?” Pansy calls out then mutters, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like I haven’t seen it all — I’m coming through!”

Ginny’s head is hanging of the arm of the loveseat so she’s got an upside-down view of Pansy’s brushing off Floo dust and soot. It’s unfair how lovely she still looks upside-down, Ginny thinks, though that might just be the Firewhiskey talking for once. “Hi,” Ginny greets her faintly.

“Hello,” Pansy sighs then squints at Ginny. “Have you been drinking?”

“A bit,” Ginny admits. She wrangles herself into an upright position so she can at least pretend to possess a shred of dignity.

“Are you supposed to do that?”

“We go through a bottle each at least once a week,” Ginny points out, scratching at her chin. “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

Pansy hums, noncommittal. “Want to tell me what got your knickers in a twist at lunch?” she asks, carefully casual, as she sweeps a thumb over the paperweight sitting above the fireplace.

“It was — nothing,” Ginny answers, though she doesn’t sound very convincing to her own ears.

“Right,” Pansy says. Her tone confirms Ginny’s earlier suspicion. “And it has nothing to do with Potter? Did he say something to upset you?”

“It’s not Harry’s fault,” Ginny says before she can consider the implications of her statement.

“So he did do something?”

“I — no, he didn’t do anything.” _On purpose, at least_ , she doesn’t add because she knows it’ll birth another line of interrogation. “What’s with the sudden concern about Harry and me?”

Pansy doesn’t answer for enough time that it starts to make Ginny’s nerves prickle, then takes in a long, deep breath and exhales. “Are you —” Pansy starts but looks away as though faintly embarrassed. “Are you having a bisexual crisis? Are you in love with Potter?”

Ginny’s brain screeches to a halt. She replays the statement in her head. It still doesn’t make sense. “What,” she says more than asks, feeling very much like the time she woke up with a concussion at St. Mungo’s and found out that Pansy had demanded to know how she was getting on.

“ _What_?” Pansy echoes, though it’s significantly more defensive. “You were staring at him all through lunch, and then he says something about you being _biased_ whatever that was supposed to mean, and then you’re white as a sheet, saying you’ve got to leave. I drew some conclusions based on the evidence.”

 _Only to avoid staring at you_ , Ginny thinks with a not inconsiderable amount of hysteria, then lets out a high-pitched laugh just to give into the urge a little. _What a mess._ “How have you survived if you’re this fucking thick?” Ginny murmurs under her breath, recalling what Pansy had said to her when they’d met again, a lifetime ago.

“Pardon?” Pansy says askance. She seems faintly green at the gills, a bit like she’s afraid to find out the answer — a bit like she’s _jealous_. Something lights up in Ginny’s brain like fireworks.

“So bloody thick,” Ginny whispers, and she takes a moment to marvel at how the tables have turned, then pushes up off the loveseat to step slowly towards Pansy until she’s backed up against the fireplace. “I’m in love with _you_.”

“Oh,” Pansy says, nothing more than breath.

There is a moment where neither of them is moving, or even breathing, really, then one of them moves, or fucking _gravity_ moves then and Ginny’s head tilts downwards and her lips are touching Pansy’s and it feels like every star in the entire universe has realigned. They kiss for long drags of time, and Ginny is high on it, the taste of Pansy’s mouth, the warmth of her skin, her honeysuckle scent, the fact that she gets to have this, awake and sober, and Pansy isn’t pulling away.

When the kiss has slowed to affectionate pecks, Ginny opens her eyes only to find Pansy already looking at her. “Figures that you’d be the one I couldn’t get over,” Pansy says, so sweetly it clutches at Ginny’s heart. “You’re so much trouble” — a kiss here — “and I’m not nearly good enough for you” — another kiss — “but I could never stay away.”

It’s Ginny’s turn to be dumb-founded now. “Oh.”

Pansy places a single tender kiss on the edge of Ginny’s jaw, then keeps her nose buried in the crook of Ginny’s neck. “I’m in love with you, too, you know,” Pansy says, and Ginny’s breath catches in her throat.

Ginny takes hold of Pansy’s hands where they’re wrapped around her neck and uses them to push Pansy back until she can look her in the eye. When she sees the tension in Pansy’s face, she tries for a tentative smile though she’s trembling all over.

“You know that this means you can’t run away anymore?” Ginny half-jokes, her voice only a little shaky. “You’re stuck with me for a long, long time.”

Pansy laughs, not delicately like a pair of silver bells, but like a whole parade, and it’s easily the best sound Ginny has heard her entire life. “I always thought I’d make an excellent trophy wife,” Pansy says, grinning slyly, like she’s telling Ginny a great secret.

 _Actually, that sounds fantastic_ , Ginny thinks with an enthusiasm that terrifies her. Instead of saying anything, she kisses Pansy so fiercely that there can be no doubt left about Ginny’s approval.

“How did I get so lucky?” Pansy says in between kisses.

“I think we both got lucky,” Ginny replies, and then there aren’t any more words for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> > the working title(s) for this fic was "ginsy [gay panic???]" then "ginsy [[REDACTED] panic???]" for the sake of my closeted status then "i'd be appalled if i ever saw you try to be a saint, i couldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave" until we got here.  
> > the POINT is that it was always going to be hozier, patron saint of the gays, and specifically, nobody.  
> > listen all of my very meagre hockey knowledge begins and ends with _check, please!_ (and i haven't checked on that in a good year and a half) but i felt that since this was for the Hockey Fic Legend herself, then there had to be a reference somewhere.  
> > somewhere, there's the faint beginnings of a companion drarry fic, though that may never come to fruition so.  
> > tumblr is [honeyhusk](https://honeyhusk.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/mythosgal) is mythosgal if you would like to yell at me but the comments down below are also available and very welcome!


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